time, doors, and nothing.

I haven’t written you a

poem for several weeks,

not because there are no words,

(but lord knows you never listen)

because broken clocks are only

right twice a day, and broken

clocks are always right, twice a day

I spend a lot of time thinking

about doors, and one morning after

another morning, and how

open doors are something

entirely different to those frightened

of lost time, and of the dark, and for those who

long for damp air on their skin under the

moonlight, wasted time is terror, personified

these doors often lead to secret

passageways, perhaps only

I can see the doors with steadfast locks,

with keys that are not really missing

and you, you are everywhere, standing

in each doorway with your own key hanging

around your neck a delicate noose, around your

neck a clear escape, because an open door 

is just a broken clock

© 9.11.2017 heather brager